


Control Your Breathing

by angeloncewas



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Confusion, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memory Loss, One Shot, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Resurrection, Unbeta'd, Wilbur Soot-centric, friend the sheep is a great character, i like that that's just a tag, non binary sheep pog, you need to have seen the 'finale'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29358786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeloncewas/pseuds/angeloncewas
Summary: After Wilbur comes back to life, there are many loose ends - frayed and charred and missing entirely - for him to tie up. There’s also some more simple things to deal with.-“We’ll wait here,” Tubbo says, amicably. “You’ll come back.”The sun paints the boys golden. Wilbur can’t remember the last time he saw light.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Friend, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 10
Kudos: 140





	Control Your Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wilbur's favorite Crywank song :)

The people have questions for Wilbur.

A lot of questions.

About Schlatt, who was very much a part of his demise, but is curiously missing from his rebirth. About the void, its occupants and function and purpose. About everything he can remember and most things he can’t.

Where’s his spectral counterpart? Why did he do what he did? What’s he going to do about the scars he’s carved into this land?

Wilbur, to his credit, does have answers. For some people, at least.

The hurt and longing in wonder in Tommy’s eyes - Wilbur’s right-hand man is taller than before and that thought alone is enough to make him want to cry, or grab a cigarette, or both - _that_ can probably be remedied.

Niki and Fundy’s absence, maybe not so much.

There’s a lot to do. There’s a lot to say.

So naturally, as the world shifts into focus and his memories crash into each other in their hurry to claim a seat in his mind, Wilbur asks Tommy and Tubbo to take him to Dream’s base.

“...Why?”

Tommy’s voice is steady and the question doesn’t seem like anything more than a valid concern (another thing to answer for, easier than stuff like _“Hey dad, should we talk about how I begged for you to kill me?”_ ), but something about it is _off._

It’s in the look they exchange. It’s in the way Tommy rests a hand on the center of his chestplate. It’s in the feeling that Wilbur gets; a weird sort of inclination that he needs to give them the answer they want.

Wilbur has no idea what they want, and that alone is unsettling.

“Tommy-” he starts.

“Wilbur,” Tommy cuts him off immediately. “You can’t just come back to life and start demanding shit.”

Wilbur frowns. “I’m not demanding, I’m requesting.”

Tubbo nudges Tommy’s side and seems to say a hundred things in his silence, some harsh and others soft, caught between the tilt of his head and how his gaze flickers over to Wilbur repeatedly.

“I’m not going back there,” Tommy says, finally.

Tubbo steps forward, a practiced, politician’s smile on his face. “But we can give you the coordinates.”

He used to be so bad at hiding his emotions.

“I...”

“We’ll wait here,” Tubbo says, amicably. “You’ll come back.”

The sun paints the boys golden. Wilbur can’t remember the last time he saw light.

He nods, vaguely hoping for that to be the end of it, but neither of them relax. Tommy sends him the coordinates and watches as he looks them over and tries to estimate how long it’ll take.

“You’ll need a boat,” Tommy mutters, taking the hand Tubbo offers subtly and a deep breath.

Wilbur’s the one with questions, then, but he’s sure they wouldn't appreciate him asking. He doesn’t know how forthcoming he should be about his memory anyway. Asking for help filling in the gaps could be inadvertently admitting to something.

Ghostbur sits in the back of his mind like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. Something warped and distorted, even in his own skin.

A part of him looks down at his palms expecting to see scarlet. A part of him is surprised his fingertips aren’t stained blue.

Wilbur’s hands are free of blood and dye. Most of him is just struggling to put everything together.

Tubbo and Tommy stare at him in silence, so he goes. Their fixed postures and blank expressions tell him nothing and they seem to be done talking.

He glances back over his shoulder, expecting some insight from their not-so-on-edge selves, only to realize that they haven’t moved.

Wilbur takes a boat from the shore and places it on the water, flinching back on instinct when some of it splashes up at him. The lack of a sizzle is disorienting and he tentatively reaches a hand down into the sea.

Nothing happens.

The haphazard pieces of himself stir in various acts of protest. For the fact that nothing interesting is going on. For the fact that he’s touching water at all.

Wilbur just feels relieved.

Arms aching from the effort, Wilbur makes it through ocean to distant lands, claimed by the person who once claimed everything.

Cliffside sharp and trees abundant, the place looks relatively untouched. Wilburs lungs feel jagged and he’s hyper-aware of the state his body is in by the end of it, but he makes it up to where everything seems to be.

Wilbur finds the elevator and silently thanks Dream for the ease of transport before stumbling over his own thoughts.

 _You’re not his vassal anymore,_ he chides in his own head.

Wilbur has never feared Dream. He started L’manberg with confidence after all, hesitation sure to breed failure.

He has, however, knelt to him. As an interrupted act of surrender. With a promise to tear down everything he’d built. Always something to do with the country Wilbur built around his soul.

Not that it matters. L’manberg fell thrice before Dream did.

That’s another question. Dream.

L’manberg was a cantata meant to be sung by desperate voices; a plea to no higher power, responded to with destruction.

Ghostbur, that sporadic, sweet thing, cared for it with high spirits and gentle hands.

Wilbur’d meant it to be his tomb. He’s not about to lament the loss of something he wanted gone just as much.

The problem is the murky memories that rear their head at his own nonchalance. Towers and houses. Stripped logs and the way Tommy’s hands had shook during their first night in Pogtopia.

Dream is something he’ll have to figure out later.

Now, on a distant island, still getting re-adjusted to the basics of this whole being-alive-thing (how does everyone not constantly think about their breathing?) Wilbur can worry about the fixable things.

Not the blackened, gnarled, rotted-away bridge between him and his son. Not the phantom ache in his chest. Not the way Tommy is as Tommy as ever, but also not even close.

Someone he left waiting.

A soft _baa_ reaches his ears as soon as his feet hit blackstone and the sound pulls an unwilling grin from him. It doesn’t make sense, really - it’s not a language Wilbur can comprehend - but he can _feel_ the weight drop from his shoulders as he catches sight of familiar cobalt wool.

“Hello, Friend.”

They let out another, harsher bleat as he approaches their enclosure.

“I know, I know,” Wilbur holds up a hand in mock-surrender. “It must’ve been lonely without me.”

Friend butts at the fence post holding them hostage and Wilbur struggles to cave-in the shoddy cage before grabbing the end of the lead.

Wilbur tugs gently and Friend immediately follows, kicking in the edge of the cracked wood as they pass. They diligently trail after him all the way to the elevator, stopping on it with him and then freezing as it begins to rise.

“You’ll be able to see grass again soon,” Wilbur tells them.

Friend offers no response, gaze petrified.

Amber sky greets them upon reaching the surface and Wilbur lets go of his end of the lead. Friend takes several seconds to collect themself, looking around cautiously and stamping their feet as if to test out the world’s stability.

Once content, Friend looks back toward him for a second before bounding around the small hills and valleys, pausing intermittently to pick at the ground.

Wilbur goes wherever Friend does, all the way to a hillside on the far end of the island. The grass there seems to meet whatever standards sheep have for their meals and Friend plops themself down before beginning to graze.

Minus the lawn-consuming bit, Wilbur follows suit. The wind plays with his hair and he can’t help but marvel at how _different_ being corporeal is.

The sun starts to crawl to its slumber, pinks and oranges chasing after it. A blinding reflection flickers across the water.

“I don’t know where to go from here,” Wilbur confesses.

Friend looks up at him.

_Baaaa._

“Well, back to Tommy and Tubbo. But long-term.”

_Baaa._

Wilbur huffs out a laugh. “This was a lot more cathartic when I felt like I could understand you.”

If exasperation could be expressed on an animal’s features, Friend would be doing it. They get up and move toward Wilbur, leaning down to pick at the grass at his feet. He winds a hand into their wool and watches the blue cascade over the raised scars across his knuckles.

“I’m… just not if sure people are supposed to get _fourth_ chances.”

_Baaaaa._

“Obviously you’re an exception,” Wilbur quickly amends.

He almost feels silly, confiding in an animal with questionable levels of both awareness and intelligence, but they are who was closest to the most persistent part of himself.

When everything else reached eagerly into the void, Ghostbur pulled away.

It’s almost like having a mutual friend, or something.

Wilbur watches Friend chew at a particularly persistent piece of pasture with a soft sort of fondness before sitting down. Friend’s eyes follow his movements blankly.

“Don’t ask me about death and we’ll get along,” Wilbur says. “Just like you and ghost boy did.”

_Baa._

Friend’s expression is pointed once more and Wilbur abruptly remembers a proclamation, uttered in his own voice.

“...Maybe not exactly like you and he did.”

Seemingly satisfied, Friend bows their head and Wilbur turns slightly so that his back is to their side. When no bleats of protest are uttered, Wilbur leans properly against them and shuts his eyes.

The fading sunlight casts wisps of warmth across the two of them. A dolphin clicks somewhere off in the distance. Friend’s ear whips up to ward off a passing insect.

It’s peaceful.

Soon, he’ll go home.

**Author's Note:**

> In sum:
> 
> \- I had this idea and wanted to get it out before it was (probably) made impossible  
> \- Writer Wilbur pog  
> \- I feel blegh today  
> \- Check out my Tumblr! Same @, I post loads of random (dsmp) crap


End file.
